The Hair of His Head

All we needed was one hair from his head
stolen at dawn off his pillow as he slept,
before the golden sun rose and made all
clear. We smiled and put food out
on the table in front of his greedy mouth.

Hasten now, speak the words, the ones
Mother taught you, never to be voiced
unless you really need them. Say them now.
You must be sure you have each right,
we have only this one chance.

Already the lowering sun floods through
the open door and he will soon return.
Pound the pestle, use all your force to grind
the hair into dust, mix with strong enchantment –
that’s the way! You are your mother’s daughter.

Toss it into his face, he will be oblivious
until too late. What shape shall we choose
this time? I know you said you’d like another cat,
but one ginger tom under our feet is enough –
and anyway, Jethro seems content to live alone.